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EPISODES 



AND 



LYRIC PIECES. 



BY 



ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS. 

M 




NEW YORK ; 
LEYPOLDT & HOLT. 
1870. 



VS'b\ 5'] 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870, by 

ROBERT KELLEY WEEKS, 
In the Office of die Librarian of Congress at Washington, 



The New York Printing Company, 

81, 83, aptd 85 Ce7Ure StreeU 

New York- 



CONTENTS. 



PART FIRST. 

PAGE 

The Return of Paris, .... 3 



Song, 



lO 



King ^geus, . . . . . ii 

In Corinth, . . . • • 13 

In Collatia, . . . . . .22 

Medusa, . . . . • . 28 

A Winter Evening, . . . . • 3° 

A Spring Mornuig, .... 35 

Shadows, ....«• 3" 

A Change, ..... 37 

Ad Finem, ...... 39 

The New Narcissus, . • . . . 41 

A Question, . . . . . .42 

Pilgrimage, ..... 45 

Sir Gawaine's Love, . . . . -57 

Her Name, ..... 75 



iv CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

In Winter, ...... 76 

Greenhouse Flowers, , . . . 77 

Till Spring, . . . . . .79 

In Nubibus, , , , . . 84 

A Pause, ...... 87 

Too Late, ..... 89 

Autumn Song, . , . . .90 

Undersong, , . . . . 91 

A Prodigal, ...... 93 

Maggior Dolore, .... 96 

Gone, ...... 99 

The Moral, ..... loi 

The End, , , . . . .102 



PART SECOND. 

VitaVitalis, . . . . . .105 

A Day, . . . . . . no 

The River, . . . . . • "5 

"In the Springtime," ... . • 117 

In Early April, . . . . .118 

In May, . . . . . . 1 19 

Spring Song, ..... 121 

May Song, . . , . . 123 



CONTENTS. 



Moonlight in May, . 
In the Meadow, . 
By the Lake, 
By the Bay, 
The Mist, . 
Rara Avis, 
The Katydid, 
A Vine, . 
On the Beach, 
A Glimpse of Life, 
My Star, 
Man and Nature, 
Calm and Cold, 
Winter Sunrise, . 
Winter Sunset, 
By the Fireside, 
The Men of Crete, . 
The Lion of Lucerne, 
My Place, 
Ad Amicum, 



PAGE 
125 

126 

127 

128 

129 
132 

133 
13s 

136 

137 

138 

139 
141 

142 

143 
144 

145 

146 

148 

164 



The " Return of Paris " was suggested by Mr. Cox's tale o_f 
Qlnone in the " Tales of the Gods and Heroes." The J>articular 
version of a story, ivhich Leaky says is of frequent occurrence in 
accounts of the early Christians, ivhich I have used in the " In 
Corinth," is one that I found accidentally iti HiJ>j>olytus (vol. 2, p. 
96 — vol. IX. of the Ante-Nicene Library), 7vho rej>resents the girl 
as " a certain most noble a7td beautiful maiden in the city of 
Corifith," ivhom the "young 7nan Magistria7tus" a Christian also, 
saves in the way indicated in the j>oem. I have preferred to think 
of the you7tg man as a Pagan (ivith a touch of nzoderft sentiment), 
who does for love 7vhat Hippolytus says the Christia7i did, strivi7ig 
" 7iobly for his 01071 i77t7nortal soul." Sir Gaivai7te is, of course, a7i 
a7iachronistic co/isideration ( I hope 7iot too curious a o7ie) of the old 
ballad i7t Percy, hi writi7ig the "Maggior Dolor e " (perhaps 1 77tay 
as well say) I luas probably thinking quite as J7iuch of the Third 
Ca7tto of the Infer7io as of the Fifth. 



PART FIRST. 



WITH MEN AND WOMEN. 



POEMS. 



THE RETURN OF PARIS. 

T STUMBLED thrice, and twice I fell and lay 

Moaning and faint, and yet I did not pray 
To any God or Goddess of them all; 
Because I never doubted, climb or crawl, 
That I should reach the fountain and the tall 
One old familiar pine-tree, where I lay 
Prone on my face, with outstretched hands, you 

say, 
Fallen once again — this time against the goal. 
And now, what shall I pray for ? since my whole 
Wish is accomplished, and I have your face 
Once miore by mine in the remembered place. 
And the cool hand laid on my head aright, 
A little while before I die to-night. 



4 THE RETURN OF PARIS. 

For surely I am dying : not a vein 
But has received the poison and the pain 
Of Philoctetes' arrow. — Oh ! I heard 
The hissing of the vengeance long deferred, 
And felt it smite me, and not smite me dead ; 
And all at once the very words you said 
Too long ago returned to me once more — 
When, as you shall be, you are ivounded sore, 
Come back to me, and I will cure you then, 
Whom none but I can cure : and once again, 
Sweet ! I am with you, and am cured by you, 
And by you only; and yet it is true 
That I must die, QEnone. So it is. 
And better that it is so ! Hark to this. 
How good it were, if we could live once more 
The old sweet life we found so sweet before — 
Here iii the mountain where we were so glad. 
Ere I was cruel and ere you were sad I 
How good it were could we begin again 
The old sweet life just where we left it then ! 



THE RETURN OF PARIS. 5 

A song, love ; — but my singing voice is gone — 

The one song that I made, the only one 

After I left you to be mad so long ; 

(A marvellous thing to have made no other song !) 

The only one — ^which, many months ago. 

Came to me strangely with a soft and slow 

Movement of music, which at first was sad, 

But sad and sweet, and after only sad, 

And then most bitter, as its death gave birth 

To a low laughter of uneasy mirth — 

Made of blent noises that the night-winds bore, 

The lapse of waves upon the dusky shore, 

The creaking of the tackle, and the stir 

Of threatening banners where the camp-fires were 

About the armies, that no such a charm 

As a regretful love-song could disarm, 

And bring to life the heroes that were slain, 

And make the war as if it were a vain 

Noise in the night that at the morn is not. 

And all the Past a dream that it begot. 



6 THE RETURN OF PARIS. 

The wind was right to laugh my song away ! 

And then I thought — if only for a day 
I might be with her, only for so long 
As to be pardoned or (forgive the wrong) 
Cursed by her there, and so get leave to die ! 
And here we are, QEnone, you and I ! 
Yes, we are here ! why ever otherwhere ? 

Ah ! why indeed ? And yet, love, let me dare 

Uncover my whole heart to you once more ; 

I think I never was so blest before — 

Never so happy as I am to-day. 

Not even, indeed, when in the early May 

We found each other, and were quite too glad 

To know the value of the love we had. 

But now I seem to know it in my need. 

Inhaling the full sweetness of it — freed 

Now, for the first time, from its perfect flower ; 

Ah ! quite too sweet to overlast its hour ! 



THE RETURN OF PARIS. 7 

What more now shall I pray for? To be let 
Live and not die ? Ah ! if we could forget 
All but the Present and outlaw the Past ! 
And yet I know not — could the Present last 
If quite cut off from all that gave it birth, 
And not be changed, if changed to alien earth, 
Into a Future that we know not of? 
We will not ask : we have attained to Love — 
Whatever grown from — ^which not all the years 
Past or to come, nor memories nor fears. 
Can rob us of forever, nor make less. 
No praying then — but only thankfulness ! 

No sound floats hither from the smoky plain ; 
Turn me ^, little — never mind the pain — 
I see it now. And that was Ilion then ! 
The accursed city in the mouths of men. 
Whose mouths are swift to interweave its name 
With mine forever for a word of shame. 
I never loved it, and it loved me not — 



8 THE RETURN OF PARIS. 

The fatal firebrand that itself begot 

And tried to quench and could not — there it 

smokes ! - 

And there the shed blood of its people soaks 
Into the soil that they loved more than life. 

Let the Gods answer, who decreed the strife ! 
But you, great-hearted, whom indeed I loved — 
Brother and friend, by whom, if unapproved, 
I was loved sometime in the upper air — 
Will you turn from me when I meet you there 
And greet you. Hector, in the other world? 
Will you turn from me, with lip coldly curled. 
And frank eyes hardened? — 

I accept the sign ! 
Lo you ! CEnone, where the gloomy line 
Of the slow clouds is broken, and a bright 
Gleam, like a smile, steals softly into sight 
And grows to a glory in the increasing sky ! 



THE RETURN OF PARIS. 9 

Nay, you are right, love ! What have you and I 
To do with Past or Future, who have for boon 
So rich a Present, to exhaust so soon 
Between the dayHght and the afterglow? 
The last cloud passes, and how calm I grow ! 
And now — if I should close my eyes, my love. 
And seem to sleep a little, and not move 
Until the sky has got its perfect gold. 
You will not think me dying while I hold 
Your hand thus closely? Kiss me now. Again! 
Past chance of change — ^just where we left it 
then. 

CENONE. 

I had him last ! I had him first and last ! 
His morning beauty and his evening charm! 
Oh, Love ! triumphant over all the Past, 
What Death can daunt you, or what Future 
harm? 



SONG. 

A N under-cloud that half reveals, 
Half hides a splendid star ; 
(Even then more clear than others are, 

As always queenlier.) 
Such was my love to her. 

A wilting wind that bends a rose 

Not very long nor far; 
(Even then more fresh than others are, 

As always lovelier.) 
Such was my love to her. 

O star of stars, as clear and high ! 

O rose of roses, none the less ! 
The cloud is blown out of the sky, 

The wind is in the wilderness. 



KING ^GEUS. 

(A Fragment.) 

T T was a day of light ; the gracious sun 

Filled full of light the insatiate Autumn air, 
And streamed in splendour on the exulting sea, 
Till the low waves, blent by the rippling breeze, 
Near by showed blinding silver — but beyond. 
The laughter of innumerable eyes 
That winked in an embarrassment of joy. 
Above, the undazzled sky was calm, was blue, 
With here and there a lonely dimpled cloud. 
White as the flying sea-foam whence it sprang — 
Slow wandering noiseless on its dreamy way. 
Half heedless of the embracing wind's desire; 



12 KING- ^GEUS. 

And on the land the sun smiled joyousl}^, 

The green fields took a brighter green, the 

grain 
Rose panting broadly to the genial light, 
And bending low, returned the golden smile ; 
All things were overfull of happy life. 
And all the mingled noises in the air 
Seemed vainly murmuring of the joy of earth ; 
Alone amid them all, the sad old king 
Sat listening, and heard nothing but a sound 
Of quivering silence in his empty ears — 
Sat looking, and saw nothing but a want 
Of anything to see in all the world, 
Unfilled as yet by any little sail. 



IN CORINTH. 

T ET me review it all before I sleep ; 

I am still too happy to be quiet yet, 
And grudge to give one morsel of my joy, 
Unrelished fully, to distorting dreams, 
Or mere oblivion : let me taste it all 
Slowly and thankfully from end to end. 
And then the last before the final sleep 
From which I wake to wait for her in heaven 
It must be so, I feel that it is so. 

Before I ever held her by the hand, 
Before I ever called her by her name, 
Before I ever looked her in the face 
I knew and loved her, as I knew and loved 



14 IN CORINTH. 

All things whose loveliness makes men despair- 
Despair and love, and never quite despair. 
And when I met her first, a year ago, 
And heard her voice and saw her mouth and eyes. 
This is the love that I foresaw, I said. 
And thrilled with joy to see her here at last ; 
Here and not here — for, when I looked again, 
I saw the place she stood on, far aloof 
From all of me except my merest dreams. 
And scorned my littleness, and turned away 
And let despair instruct me how to love. 

But no despair could teach me to forget, 

Nor utterly compel me to its will. 

While yet my heart was tender to the touch 

Of influences from the day and night. 

The sunlight and the starlight, grass and trees. 

And clouds and skies and waters, for the charm 

With which all these allured me and repelled, 



IN CORINTH. 15 

And saddened me, and quickened and consoled, 
Still led me in a circle back to her 
To whom all other loveliness referred, 

I saw her very seldom in my life^ 

Too very seldom, as I used to say; 

It irked me bitterly to waste the days 

So far from Corinth and the sight of her. 

And does it irk me now to think of this? 

And shall I, as I used, accuse the Past, 

And count it lost because not spent with her ? 

If I had seen her oftener, perhaps 

It might have been far otherwise ; but now, 

How is it now ? Is it not perfect now ? 

I would not have it otherwise. 

And yet. 
Glad as I am, yes, quite content and glad — 
Perhaps, indeed, because I am so glad — 



1 6 IN CORINTH. 

I cannot yet, quite yet, forget to dream 

Of all that might have been. I wish I knew 

More of that Heaven she spoke of. But 

enough — 
It is enough; I will not lose in dreams 
The recollection of what was and is. 
It is enough for me to live to-night ; 
To-day is mine and yesterday is mine, 
To-morrow shall ask questions of itself. 

Day before yesterday I said, 'Tis now 

A month since I have seen or heard of her; 

To-morrow is the birth-day of my love : 

A year ago to-morrow I first saw 

And loved the only woman in the world. 

She surely cannot love me ; but the days 

Fall from my life like withered leaves, and soon 

What freshness will be left of all my youth? 

I will go tell her all, and ask her leave 

At least to be permitted to outwear 



IN CORINTH. 17 

My life in some impossible attempt 
To overcome the gulf and climb the height 
That separates me from her ; or at least, 
I will go see her and not say a word, 
See her once more and go away content, 
And never vex her after. That is best — 
See her once more and afterward no more. 
And so it was ; I saw her just once more, 
And proved my love instead of speaking it. 

She is quite safe, I know, and out of reach — 
Quite out of reach of that accursed — God ! 
That I could kill him ! She is surely safe. 
But it is dreadful to remember now 
How slight an error might have thwarted all. 
But I was certain that I should succeed — 
I never doubted once. 

• 
When I first heard 
That she was brought before that beastly Judge 



1 8 IN CORINTH. 

For blasphemy against his fooHsh gods, 
I knew what I was born for. When they said, 
*"Tis as pretext, this charge of blasphemy,, 
'Tis not the first time he has played this game " 
(I hate myself that it is not the last), 
"He only wants to force her to his will" — 
Not even then I doubted, tho' the words 
Made my knees shake. I did not doubt at all, 
But waited. 

In the afternoon I learned 
(Whether made blind by rage or keen by craft. 
What matters it? I thwarted him at both). 
That since she neither would deny her God 
Nor take such pardon as he offered her. 
That he had done a thing impossible — 
Had sent her to a brothel with command 
That any man who might be base enough — 
I hardly can believe it even now ! 



IN CORINTH. 19 

I bargained for and bought her with a price. 

That was a strange and bitter thing to do : 

For every coin I could have better borne 

To give a piece of my indignant heart. 

It needed all the love I had for her 

To save me from the frenzy of remorse, 

And shame and pain which would have ruined 

all. 
This too becomes a thing incredible — '■ 
A tale, a dream — I will not think of it. 

But all the rest of it is sweet and good. 
All was arranged, the friends and horses sure. 
The dusk excluded and the stars aloft, 
When I gave over watching and went in 
And found her — on the birth-day of my love, 
I thought of that — and as she raised her eyes. 
Not shamefully but grandly, all the place 
Seemed changed and sacred — a good place to be ; 



20 IN CORINTH. 

Not, as I Galled it while I watched outside, 
A dung-hill darkened by a spotless rose. 
Black mire made blacker by a speckless pearl, 
Night's gloom made gloomier by a single star. 
But night was morn, white marble was the mire, 
And the dung-hill a garden having her. 

She knew me in a moment, took my hand 
And said, I thought — I knew that you would 

come. 
What must we do?" I told her all the plan. 
" You must disguise yourself with mask and cloak 
To look like me ; and when the street is clear, 
Go boldly forth, and turning to the right. 
Meet and be safe with one who says my name." 
"And you ? " — " I wait a while and watch my chance 
To join you afterward." She smiled a strange, 
Unnamable, sweet, melancholy smile. 
And seemed to muse a moment, and then said, 



IN CORINTH. 21 

"Yes, you are right !" and then, "You too believe, 
As I do, that we meet our friends in Heaven, 
And know each other after death, my friend? 
Stoop down a Httle. I kiss you now and here. 
And make you an appointment." 

So she said. 

But here they say, that I must fight the beasts 
To-morrow. To-morrow ! I beat them yesterday; 



IN COLLATIA. 

'' I ^HAT he were come, O God that he were 

come ! 
To wait and wait for him, and think and think, 
And grow old thinking, while the lazy sun 
Crawls inch by inch along the helpless sky — 
I shall be gray and wrinkled before noon ! 
Ah ! 'twas not thus I used to wait for him. 
'Twas not thus yesterday, yet yesterday 
Was not so beautiful a day as this. 
Impossible that I can be so changed ! 
To dream a dream of evil, and awake 
And half remember and wholly loathe and hate 
And spurn the unasked, unwelcomed, alien thing, 
How can that make one impure who was pure ? 
Was pure ? is pure ; is even purer now 



IN COLL ATI A. 23 

By so much as the evil thing is loathed 

More, more and more for that chance glimpse 

of it. 
Is good so slight a thing that at a touch 
Evil can make it evil against its will? 
Is to be pure no more than to escape 
The passing touch of loathed impurity, 
Mere bodily good-fortune ? 

Not in me ! 
I am Lucretia still ! 

No, I am not. 
No more than this gnawed vine-leaf is the same 
That it was yesterday before the worm 
Crawled over and defiled it and destroyed. 
Changed, changed and changed ! and he too 

will be changed : 
I am but a beginning, but a link 
In a long chain of evil, but a means 
To transmit pain and sorrow, and from me — 
From me ? O what am I become ? From me ! 



24 IN COLLATIA. 

Why do I turn me from the stainless sky 

To dwell upon this miserable leaf, 

Which while I hold I shudder at — and hold? 

I lose myself, I stumble in the paths 

Where I was once familiar, while a sense 

Of intimacy with things hitherto 

Unknown or known but to be shunned and 

spurned 
Takes me with fascination, till I seem 
To be but one of many whom I loathe, 
But haply shall not always loathe as now ! 
There is some awful mystery in this. 
Some dread relationship of good to bad, 
Which whirls me from myself to think of it. 

But I am not one of them, I am not, . 
I am not one of them. I am myself, 
Lucretia still ! insulted but not stained. 
Insulted, wronged and wretched, full of pain; 
Too full of bitter pain and shame to be 



IN COLLATIA. 25 

Akin to what so pains me, or estranged 
From what it tortures me so much to lose. 
O surely I am not, I cannot be 
The thing that I begin to understand ! 

This is too wild and foolish. There are eight, 
Twelve, fifteen, eighteen — eighteen, twenty grapes, 
Twenty grapes on this cluster — twenty-one, 
Twenty-one grapes that just begin to change. 

But so was this unwilling — loo^ at it, 
This wretched leaf, this leaf that do I hold 
Or does it cling to my unwilling hand 
As clung the worm to its unwillingness? 
To its unwillingness, to its, to mine. 
To its unwilling helplessness and mine. 
It is our helplessness and not our will. 
No help by night, no remedy by day ! 
Only the worm is safe, that poisons us, 
And makes us poison others, but not him. 



26 IN COLLATIA. 

Ours all the pain, the bitter grief, the shame, 
'Tis we who suffer for it, we — the leaf, 
And I — and Collatinus, — worst of all ! 
O worst of all that I must be the means, 
That I — ^must, must — O mockery of will ! 
If I were willing should I suffer so? 
There is no way — not if I die at once 
Can he escape the poison and the pain. 

Helpless. But why so helpless ? Was this leaf 
Less pure than any other, that the worm 
Chose this one to crawl over and not that? 
Why was this chosen to be so defiled? 

If in itself, unknown unto itself. 

Unknown and unsuspected, should have been 

Something that fitted it to feed the worm ! 

Ha ! the breeze blows it back to me again ! 
Off from my dress I I trample on it — So ! 



IN COLL ATI A. 27 

Be still, be still, be still ! O but my brain 
Is giddy with intruding thoughts that swarm 
Like flies for carrion, and the very air 
Quivers and murmurs with a hateful thought, 
The merciless grasshoppers make me mad 
With hissing all one word — O horrible, 
That ever evil should give aught but pain ! 

I must be patient. What a day it is ! 
With its clear sky, its white unburthened clouds. 
Its noiseless shadows and its glancing leaves, 
Its songs, its voices and its easy wind 
Charmed with the murmur of the moving trees ! 
O husband, love, where were you, ere the night 
Made me your shame who used to be your 

praise ! 
No more, no more forever, never more ! 



MEDUSA. 

/'^NE calm and cloudless winter night, 

Under a moonless sky — 
Whence I had seen the gracious light 
Of sunset fade and die, — 

I stood alone a little space. 

Where tree nor building bars 
Its outlook, in a desert place. 

The best to see the stars. 

No sound was in the frosty air, 

No light below the skies ; 
I looked above, and unaware 

Looked in Medusa's eyes ; — 



MEDUSA. 29 

The eyes that neither laugh nor weep, 

That neither hope nor fear, 
That neither watch nor dream nor sleep, 

Nor sympathize nor sneer; 

The eyes that neither spurn nor choose, 

Nor question nor reply. 
That neither pardon nor accuse. 

That yield not nor defy ; 

The eyes that hide not nor reveal. 

That trust not nor betray ; 
That acquiesce not nor appeal — 

The eyes that never pray. 

O love that will not be forgot ! 

O love that leaves alone ! 

O love that blinds and blesses not ! 

. O love that turns to stone ! 
-7* 



A WINTER EVENING. 

Expecting him, her fancy talks 

(By like afid unlike set astir) 
Of one of her last sutnmer walks 

To ivhere he sat expecting her. 

T T 7" E had no sunset here to-day, 

Nor are there any stars to-night; 
But all above was pearly gray 

And all beneath was silver white ; 
And still the snow-flakes fall and fall 

In silence, for the weary breeze 
Is sleeping, and no noise at all 

Is in the bushes or the trees. 
On which the snow lies like white moss, 

Too hght to bend them; but the grass 
Must be quite hidden all across 



A WINTER EVENING. 31 

The meadow through which he will pass 
Unheard, unseen, till he is near 

The lilac sparkling in the glow 
Of this my little lamp, placed here 

To call him to me through the snow. 

'Tis not so very cold without; 

But here within 'tis light and warm, 
The hot wood murmurs, wrapped about 

By lithe long flames of fickle form ; 
And swiftly running on, to make 

Its lurking cuckoo leap and laugh, 
The clock's incessant chatterings wake 

An answering echo in behalf 
Of sweeter noises than its own : 

Till, hearing them, I seem to see 
Once more the meadows overgrown 

With waving grass, and every tree 
With bright green leaves well woven close 

To take the sunlight, and the wind 



32 A WINTER EVENING. 

Almost to take, that comes and goes 

And never quite makes up its mind. 
And in the meadows near and far, 

With daisies and snapdragon dight, 
Unanswerable crickets are 

Forever singing out of sight ; 
And little flickering brooks that flow 

To their own music ever, make 
For me a music that I know — 

How well indeed, who used to take 
The path so often close beside 

The brightest of them, singing past 
Well-watered grass on either side. 

Till, o'er the little bridge at last, 
Good-by to brook and path, but not 

Till, spite of all the surly bees 
That grudge the treasure, I have got 

As many ear-drops as I please : 
And then the meadow ('twas a sin 

To flout the quiet daisies so), 



A WINTER EVENING. 33 

With scared grasshoppers out and in 

The grasses leaping as I go; 
Along the moss-grown shaky wall, 

Across the close-nipped pasture-ground 
Where only mulleins dare grow tall, 

And blackberry vines creep close around 
The gray-green mossy rocks that sleep 

Luxurious in the flattering light 
Of sunshine all day long, and keep 

Warm sides to feel of in the night ; 
Past patient cows that mildly gaze 

Upon me as I pass them by, 
And stop to fix a lock that strays, 

And startle at a far-off cry ; — 
And then a turn, and there is naught 

Between me and the place I know 
But vines and bushes interwrought 

To make a screening tangle go 
About a green and golden glade. 

Where 'neath the appointed chestnut tree, 



34 A WINTER' EVENING. 

And quaintly dappled by its shade, 

Who is it I have come to see ? 
And yet, forsooth, the eager eyes 

Must cloud a little and go astray 
A moment with the thoughts that rise 

Of many things, and will have way, 
Before I dare to draw the screen 

Of interwoven leaves apart 
A little way, and peer between, 

And see him, with as full a heart — 

As now I have to see him there. 
Behind my lilac in the snow 

Peering at me, and with an air 
As if a woman would not know ! 



w 



A SPRING MORNING. 



HO would have thought that she could 



be so cold — 

So cold and hard, and deaf and dumb and blind ? 
Oh she, whom it was summer to behold 

In midst of winter ! when the excluded wind 
Stirred snow instead of flowers, and under ice 

The brook went blindly, and the boughs were 
dumb 
Of song and whisper, and no butterflies 

Gleamed in the sunlight, and no bees were come. 
Then she was warmth and colour and sweet 
song, 

And life and light and loveliness — Alas ! 
And now when snows are melted, and ere long 

All she prefigured will have come to pass. 
Now she herself is colder than the snow 
Is cold, is dead — Oh, how can she be so ! 



SHADOWS. 

T T OW good it is to see once more 

Green grasses turning gray before 
The wilful blowing of the breeze ; 
And here and there from clouds and trees, 
Over the moving meadow, slow 
The changing shadows glide and go ! 

How good it is ! but as before. 
No summer breezes any more 
Shall blow about her wayward hair ; 
Nor any summer meadows wear 
Her passing shadow, passed away 
With half the brightness of the day. 




A CHANGE. 

E said, "Dew wets 
No dearer flowers 
Than violets : 

Thro' long Spring hours 
The wandering bees 
Prove all, and meet 
No flowers so sweet." 

I planted these, 

Whose perfumed bloom, 
I thought would please; 

And he, for whom 
I bade them grow, — 
Loves roses now 1 



4 



38 A CHANGE. 

God pity me ! 
I cannot see 

The end of pain. 
The flowers I know 

Bloom not in vain, 
Since Thou wilt care 
To find them fair : 
But Thou art — ^where? 

Faith falters so 
When I^ove grows dim, 
And 'twas for him 

I bade them grow ! 



AD FINEM. 

T WOULD not have believed it then, 

If any one had told me so — 
Ere you shall see his face again 
A year and more shall go. 

And let them come again to-day 

To pity me and prophesy, 
And I will face them all and say 

To all of them. You lie ! 

False prophets all, you He, you lie ! 

I will believe no word but his; 
Will say December is July, 

That Autumn April is, 



40 AD FINEM. 

Rather than say he has forgot, 

Or will not come who bade me wait, 

Who wait him and accuse him not 
Of being very late. 

He said that he would come in Spring, 
And I believed — believe him now. 

Though all the birds have ceased to sing 
And bare is every bough ; 

For Spring is not till he appear, 
Winter is not when he is nigh — 

The only Lord of all my year, 
For whom I live — and die ! 



THE NEW NARCISSUS. 

/"^ IVEN up for all the unprofitable day, 

O'er the ship's side that moves not in her 

place, 

To lean and look and languidly to trace 

On the slow glass of the receding bay 

The troubled image of a troubled face.; 

Or, with vague longing up and down to pace 

The narrow deck, and of the far-away 

Swift ships that glisten with momentary spray 

Ask what avails a little larger space 

Of insufficient ocean, — this is he 

Whose stranded life, too careful to be free. 

No dreams deliver, and -all thoughts betray 

To hate the calm that holds him in delay. 

To doubt the wind that calls him to the sea. 
4* 



A QUESTION. 



"O RIGHT buds that will not blow, 

Blown flowers that are not sweet, 

Fruits that no man can eat, 
Sown seeds that will not grow, 

All men may meet. 



Fair fields of fertile land 

Neglected utterly, 

Weeds where good grain should be, 
Long stretches of ploughed sand, 

AU men may see. 



A QUESTION. 43 

3- 

Springs nauseous to the taste, 

Rills tangled in the grass, 

Wells breathing deadly gas. 
Rivers that split and waste, 

All men may pass. 

4- 
Words — ^vain and idle words 

That vex the eager ear — 

No more what they appear 
Than blown leaves are like birds, 

All men may hear. 

5- 
Paths circling in a maze, 

Clews sure to break or bind. 

Torches that burn and blind. 
Guides that know not the ways. 

All men may find. 



44 A QUESTION. 

6. 

Ambitions made to fall, 

Hopes swift to come and go, 
Dumb loves that chill like snow, 

And friendships that enthrall. 
All men may know. 

7- 

Brief glimpses of faint joys 
Between long clouds of pain, 
Weak virtues that restrain, 

And knowledge that annoys, 
All men may gain. 

But why with such as these. 
Men choose day after day 
To waste lives that they may 

Make fruitful if they please 
What man can say? 



PILGRIMAGE. 

/. Setting Out. 

O HE is so lovely that I long 

With all my soul to sing one song 
Before her, or at least to see 
How heavenly fair the face must be 
Of her, whom having never seen, 
I long for and have called my Queen. 

I go to seek her. Yes, to-day 

Shall be the last of my delay : 

I go to seek her, journeying through 

Strange ways and wilds beloved of few, 

But I must see her face before 

My days for wandering are o'er. 



46 PILGRIMAGE. 

And Youth is passing. Ah ! ray friend, 
Too soon the sunlit days will end; 
Too soon the uninspiring night 
Will find me needing other light 
Than lights their life who will not gain 
The pain of joy, the joy of pain; 

For of one thing my soul is sure — 
There is no joy that can endure 
Which is not grown of pain indeed. 
So I plant pain, and from that seed 
Wait hopeful ere the end to gain 
True joy, the flower of real pain. 

True joy which will endure — you say; — 
"Wliat is it after many a day 
Of painful toil, if you shall gain 
A moment's joy for days of pain — 
A little glimpse of her, and then 
The loneliness and dark again?" 



PILGRIMAGE. 47 

But is it so? Look up — behold! 
How all the westward clouds in gold 
And crimson beauty take the light ! 
And the' in half an hour the night 
Will steal it from me, still would I 
Walk miles and miles to see that sky. 

And shall I not walk miles and miles 
Just once to see her when she smiles? 
Though she no more belong to me 
When smiling than that sky I see, 
Which yet seems somehow to shed down 
A joy which makes its gold my own? 

And it is mine ! Upon my face 
And in my heart I wear its grace 
So surely, that if now to-night 
All sunsets end, yet there is light 
Enough left in my life, I know, 
To set the darkness all aglow. 



48 PILGRIMAGE. 

There is the reason ! if that sky 
Has such a power to beautify 
My life that it may after thence 
Give beautifying influence, 
Wliat may my Hfe not hope to be 
If Beauty's self should shine on me? 

And so I go. The pain is long? 

And brief the joy? There you are wrong; 

For perfect joy can not be brief — 

Joy is immortal ; but for grief 

Death lies in wait, and it shall die — 

But joy has all eternity. 

Ah ! I am glad, for grief shall die, 
And I shall see true joy — even I 
Shall see it and it shall be mine; 
And yours, my friend, for that divine 
Full light of life if one man find 
Is found indeed for all mankind. 



PILGRIMAGE. 49 

And so I go. For me and you 
And all the world I seek' that true 
Full light of joy, whose dwelling-place 
Is in one undiscovered face 
Whose smile shall to my soul supply 
A life-long light to journey by, 

W^iich I shall see : 'tis but to make 
My life a journey for her sake, 
To follow where the longings lead, 
And with no guide but them succeed 
In proving how well spent they were, 
The days I lost in seeking her; 

And, as it may be, by the way 

If I sink wearily some day. 

When most I need it I may see 

The smiling face bent over me 

A moment, and then it is gone. 

And I walk on and on alone. 
S 



50 PILGRIMAGE. 

And not alone; the wished-for smile 
Shall keep me company the wliile, 
Charm me from harm, draw me away 
From all desire to stop or stray, 
And make me bolder to aspire 
By adding memory to desire. 

And if not — still I go, I go ! 
The hope shall be enough, I know, 
To save my life from being quite 
Devoid of loveliness and light ; 
It is enough for me if I 
Am still pursuing when I die. 

And so I go. Would God, my friend, 
That you were with me to the end ! 
But if at last, and far away 
From where we separate to-day, 
We meet each other face to face, 
It will not seem a strange embrace. 



PILGRIMAGE. 51 



11. Half Way. 
I. 

Has the bitterness found you ? 

Ah! fooHsh to deem, 
While the hills yet surround you 
And hold you and bound you, 

That this was your dream. 

2. 

From the fields that lie yonder 

It gleamed all aglow 
With fresh beauty and wonder, 
Which seem passing under 

Strange darknesses now : 



52 PILGRIMAGE. 

3- 

For you linger, mistaking 

The place where you stand 
For the glory, that breaking 
All o'er it, was making 

It worth your demand; 

4^ 

Not the place, whose use ended 

As soon as 'twas won, 
Allured, but the splendid 
Glad light that ascended 
Inviting you on. 

5- 

On then ! with the Spirit 

Most restless in rest 
That guides who revere it. 
And tortures who fear it 

And hold it supprest; 



PILGRIMAGE. 53 

6. 

Unsatisfied ever 

But cheerful to strive, 
Too wise to dissever 
Joy from the endeavour 

That keeps it aHve; 

7. 

Still seeking and learning 

And seeking anew, 
Still winning and spurning, 
Upborne by the yearning 

That bids it pursue; 

8. 

What place shall restrain it 

From always to range ? 
It strives but to gain it, 
Outgrow and disdain it. 

Most constant to change. 



54 PILGRIMAGE. 

9- 

Withhold it from ranging, 

And what do you win ? 
Your own soul estranging, 
And outer strife changing 

For discord within ! 

ID. 

And who can restore you 
The light you have lost, 

While the shadows lie o'er you 

Of hills yet before you 
That wait to be crost ? 

II. 

From the shadows that harm you, 

Climb, loving the light 
Which still shines to charm you 
And gladden and warm you 
And guide you aright; 



PILGRIMAGE. 55 

12. 

Only past hopes are hollow ; 

The real remain, 
And swift-winged as the swallow 
Still call you to follow 

With longing again — 

13- 

Each something supplying. 

Lest any despond, 
Each something denying. 
And all testifying 

To something beyond. 



56 PILGRIMAGE. 



III. Before the Gates, 

Too long I wander lonely to and fro. 

loved and loving, whom I have not seen, 
Declare yourself, and be indeed my Queen — 

To rule and lead me where I long to go. 
For now too weary, and almost in vain, 

Striving to keep the old smile on my face, 
And make the joy of others cure my pain, 

1 listen for you in the lonely place. 
Which grows more lonely as day after day 

Too swiftly leaves me with my wish denied; 
While hither, from within the gates, there stray 
Sweet words and laughters — not so sweet as those 
Which I still dream of, where the gates unclose. 

And we too enter gladly, side by side. 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

" Me lust ttot of the caf 7te of the stree. 
Make so long a tale as of the corjt" 

Guinevere. 
T ET me have all the story from yourself. 
Was she indeed so ugly as they say — 
She whom I know is now so beautiful? 

Gawaine. 
Is she not beautiful? — so beautiful 
That I dare even look upon your face, 
And turn from that to look on hers again 
And still say it is beautiful ! 

Guinevere. 

Nay, nay ! 
You make your praise too serious a thing, 



58 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

With that so grave and earnest voice of yours, 
For one to take it without afterthought 
Of one's own worthiness — tell me of her; 
How could you take her, Gawaine ? 'Tis a tale ! 



Gawaine. 
How could I take her! Is she not most fair? 
And yet to me it sometimes seems a dream 
From which I dread to wake. But it is true, 

Guinevere. 
Why so it is — that she is beautiful. 
But was she otherwise, or if she was, 
How could you ever take her, still I say. 

Gawaine. 
To serve the king. Why, what else could I do ? 
You know how the king met her and from her — 
The meanest creature in the world she seemed, 
And yet the one of whom he had most need, 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE 59 

Without whose love his kingdom could not stand — 
Learned the one way to overcome his foe ; 
And how — for all his kingdom was at stake, 
And he was kingly in his gratitude — 
He promised her that she should ask and have 
Her dearest wish, and how she said at once : 
'This is my dearest and my only wish. 
That one of Arthur's knights shall marry me.' 

Guinevere. 
Too dear a wish for such a one as she ! 

Gawaine. 
So he thought, looking sidewise at her face: — 
A face in which no grace nor goodness showed. 
But nothing else could tempt her ; she had wished 
Ani he had promised — let him keep his word. 
So he rode back with a most heavy heart 
To find himself entrapped a second time. 
And would not speak at first; but afterward 



6o SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE, 

To me, still seeking to find out his grief, 
That I might somehow help him if I could, 
Told what had happened, and more than he 

ought 
Reproached himself. Well, it seemed hard at 

first, 
And strange enough. But what else could I do ? 
I saw no other way and told him so — 
My life was his — 

Guinevere. 
- O, there it is again ! 
I cannot understand it. Men may die. 
And so give all their lives, but — Gawaine, no I 
There is no one before his death so cold 
That he is not devoted to some hope — 
Some self-tormenting, secret, sleepless hope — 
To which he still clings closer as the years, 
The barren, lonely years too swiftly go. 
And leave him looking still to find his life — 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 6 1 

His life, his own life, his true, real life, 
Which still escapes him, and still more and more 
Is longed for, as still more and more the years 
Go from him unenjoyed, and steal away 
The precious future, so made less and less, 
And dearer as it lessens. Speak the truth ! 
How can one who has waited so to live — 
So much life lost, so little left to him. 
And yet that little holding all his life. 
All that can justify the fruitless past 
And save from utter blankness all the years — 
How can one give away that hope of life ? 

Gawaine. 

He cannot, Guinevere, he never does ; 

And yet I know, I know ! Yes, and will say 

What I had thought before to leave unsaid ; 

But all is over now, both doubt and deed. 

And you can understand me why I speak. — 

How long ago it seems, two days ago ! 
6 



62 



SIJ^ GAIVAINE'S LOVE. 



A day to be remembered for itself, 
A bright Spring day, and all the earth was new 
With growing grass and beautiful bright, leaves 
And brighter skies and the swift flight of birds 
Not swifter than their singing — what a day ! 
Which took me, charmed to follow, to itself, 
And led me from the garden — ^where the rest 
Welcomed the Spring with smiles and whispered 

words — 
Beyond the palace to the wider fields, 
Where overhead the sky was broad and deep, 
And all the beauty of a sunlit world 
Lay open to my senses and my soul. 
And seeing beauty grow in everything. 
And all things fairer because each was fair, 
And glad to see it all, what wonder then 
That I should think no less of my own life 
Than that it also might be beautiful ? 
And thinking thus I saw the sun go down. 
And in the fulfilled brightness of the West 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. ^-^ 

Seemed to behold the light of some great joy — 
The proof and the reward of real life, 
Which I should gain, not for myself alone, 
But for myself and through me for the world. 
So all my life, my waiting, and ray hope 
Seemed justified, and I could still wait on, 
Trusting the hope that made me think and say : 
Surely, no one who bravely longs to live, 
And bravely works and waits for it, shall fail 
To win his life from the reluctant years — 
His life, of which joy surely shall be part. 

So I stood thinking there, and with the thought 
Uprose the old love of my life again. 
More beautiful than ever — the old love 
I never dared confess to any one. 
And hardly to myself, so dear it was ; 
And so most fearful was I lest my soul. 
Seeking too clearly to define its hope, 
Should feel itself outgrown by its desire, 



64 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE, 

And darkened in the shadow of its dream. 
But now — set face to face with such a sky, 
While round me all the noises of the day- 
Ceased, save one long, low murmur of dee*p joy, 
To me the highest hope seemed surest, as it is — • 
When lo ! even as I said so, a dark shape 
Between me and the gladness of the gold ! 
The King, dusty and travel-worn and sad — 
The King, a messenger from her who knew 
The very answer to my soul's desire; 
But then we knew it not. 

'Tis hard to say 
How much perhaps the habit, learned of old, 
To do whatever work there was to do, 
Unasking my own safety or desire, 
Saved me from being overborne by doubt ; 
But without hesitation — nay, indeed. 
Almost with eagerness — so cold a dread 
Of lurking cowardice came over me — 
I bade the King at once be of good cheer, 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 65 

For was my life not his — all of my life ? 

So I said easily enough, why not? 

Just as one suddenly waked up at night 

Mechanically reaches for his sword, 

And stands on guard and shudders afterward. 

But as the words slipped from me and were 

gone, 

They seemed to hang before me like a cloud. 

Thick, black, impassable, through wliich no light 

Of earth or heaven could find me any more. 

And bitterer came after, for the King, 

Touching unconsciously the wound that I 

Kept hardly hidden from him, said at once, 

'Better that I and all my Kingdom fail, 

Than that your life be dwarfed in saving it. 

Shall I, who know how hard it is to live — 

Shall I keep you from living all your life ? 

Shall I, who know how even another's sin 

Poisons the purest life, give you away 

To mere infection, shutting out your youth 
6* 



66 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

From all the quickening health and help of love 
Which all men need, the noblest most of all?' 

That was the painfullest, for every word, 

Too apt an ally to my doubtful fear. 

Struck me and stung me like so many sparks 

Of biting fire upon the naked flesh. 

Even now I feel them, and remember how 

I shrank, and hastily, to hide my pain, 

Said what I hardly know, for all the world 

Seemed unsubstantial in the utter dark, 

And there was nothing left for me to do 

But cling in very loneliness of soul 

To this one dreadful chance of doing well ; 

Lest, letting go my hold of that, the earth 

Should slide from under me and I be lost. 

For, yes ! that was what saved me — to hold fast 

To that true law of life, proved always sure. 

But hard to prove though easy to believe. 

That he lives best and makes most of his life 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 67 

Wlio puts it to most use. Use is the life of life, 
And who most uses it most saves his life. 
There I was safe, and clinging fast to that 
The cloud passed over me, strong to dismay 
But not to conquer. Then I saw and knew 
The meaning and the worth of what we seek; 
'Tis not so much to enjoy as to desire. 
Joy is a necessary part of life ; 
But the best joy, the surest, fertilest, 
Is not that which allures us from without. 
But that which springs and grows within our- 
selves — 
The joy which we create within ourselves 
And are ourselves the rulers of — not that 
Which would rule over us, and make our souls 
Mere restless slaves of fickle influence. 
Was it a loss then for me to let go 
The outer vague, uncertain dreams and hopes? 
Since to lose them was but to find myself. 
And give my soul its rightful place again 



68 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

Of lordly rule, and be at last a man 

Strong in myself without external aid, 

And so sure of my life I need no more 

Weigh nicely all its uses, but be free 

To use it everywhere and every day, 

As common as my sword, finding my work 

The common work, my joy the joy of all, 

And so beside my own ^Dossessing all. 

With no dread now of being called upon 

For painful sacrifice, because I gain 

The glad indifference of heroic hearts. 

Who prove all things and hold fast what is good. 

Ah ! how the sky grew clear, and from my eyes 

The mists were blown abroad before that 

thought 
As from a cheerful breeze, and all the stars 
Came forth, gleamed clear, and in the stainless 

sky 
Glided to music, and my soul was glad 
With a new sense of freedom and a new 



SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE, 69 

And dearer love of life, meant to be made 
A sure succession of productive days, 
An infinite pursuit, which, rightly urged. 
Wins always, and can never be outworn. 
But now I tire you. 

Guinevere. 

No ! you puzzle me. 
But after sunset is there not the night ? 

Gawaine. 
And stars — did I not say the stars were out, 
Supreme above the trouble of the clouds ? 
Forgive my boasting, but I half forget. 
Thinking of her, the end that might have been. 

Guinevere. 
You are Gawaine, and I am Guinevere — 
But tell me how it ended. 



7o SIJi GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

Gawaine. 

The next day 
The King and Tristram, Laiincelot and Kay, 
And more, not many, with us, we rode forth 
In the first freshness of the early morn 
To where the King had met her — not in vain. 
There is a place, apart from any way, 
Hard by the forest, where an oak tree grows 
Quite all alone, but that it overhangs 
A single holly, and mid-way between 
The oak, just won to put away at last 
His barren doubt and from the genial Spring 
Withhold no one of all his tender leaves, 
And the low holly that all winter long 
Can keep alive its strange suggestive green, 
There she was sitting on the ground. Ah me ! 
It was too bitter to see such a thing 
Blacken the brightness of the cheerful sky 
And make the world a failure ; and for this — 
Was it for this I had reserved myself? 



SIA' GAWAINE'S LOVE. 71 

Foregone so much for this — for this so long 
Borne with delay, and through the lonely years 
Scorned not the lesson of their loneliness ? 
A bitter fruit to gather at the last ! 
I think I must have shown it in my face 
More than I should, the pain that took me then 
As I stood motionless, with eyes withdrawn 
From all the world but that which made it sad ; 
For all at once I heard, as if it were 
The fatal echo of my speechless thought, 
The voice of Launcelot, that said, Alas / 
And at the words, so full of piteous love, 
My heart was softened to remember now 
The knighthood that I boasted, and my eyes 
Made clear to see how much more want there was 
Of love and pity in this wretched one, 
From Avhom, because hers was so great a need, 
Men turned away and could not pity her. 
And by what right, I could but ask myself — 
By what right was this woman quite cut off 



72 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

From any touch of kindly human hands, 
Quite thrust apart from all mankind, to whom, 
However base, she was more near akin 
Than to the gracious sunlight and the breeze. 
That had no more of scorn nor less of love 
For her than for another ? By what right 
Was she unlovely? And why could I not 
Avoid a sense of shame, unfelt before, 
That made me guilty of her wretchedness, 
As each by each the questions that I asked 
Were sternly left unanswered? From that time 
I knew that over all my life henceforth 
She had a power. And, shall I tell you all?— 
I know not why, but I was glad of it ; 
And irresistibly drawn do^vn at once 
To look upon her face, at once I saw 
(This is a strange thing that I tell you of) — 
But looking down I saw within her eyes 
The same desire that lived within my own, 
But much more patient, as if more secure. 



S/J? GAWAINE'S LOVE. 73 

A long desire that questioned all it saw, 
That questioned me with a prevailing look, 
As if in judgment of me ; or again, 
As if imploring me as much or more 
For my sake than for hers, to let my heart 
Not close itself against the eager wish 
Which seized me suddenly, with more of love 
Than pity of her, to stoop swiftly down 
And lift and kiss her quickly on the mouth ! 

(A voice front the hall, singing.) 

After the fight ! 
Then let Love look upon me^ 

When I am proved a knight 

Worthy to bear the sight 
Of her whose love has won me — 
Then let Love look upon me, 

After the fight ! 

Gawaine. 

Launcelot's song — what a glad voice he has ! 
7 



74 SIR GAWAINE'S LOVE. 

(From ike hall.) 

After the fight! 
Then let me be rewarded. 

When I am proved a knight 

Worthy to wear aright 
Her favour bravely guarded — 
Then let me be rewarded, 

After the fight ! 

Guinevere. 
And you proved knight who fought so well for 

her; 
You too are well rewarded, are you not? 
And there she is — see, in the garden now. 
And you can no more now resist her eyes 
Than on that morning. Well, then, you shall go. 
Thanks for so glad a story. 

^Gaivain'e goes out.) 

Would there were 
Some one in all the world to kiss me so — 
If only Launcelot were also saved ! 



HER NAME. 

T THINK her true name must be Marguerite, 

So bright she is and so serenely sweet, 
This girl I never spoke to ; and have seen 
Twice, and twice only ; once as o'er the green 
She walked to church, and once just now as she 
Met and passed by, and never thought of me. 
Who smiled to think how all the dusty street 
Seemed like fresh fields, and murmured Mar- 
guerite ! 



IN WINTER 



T T 7 HAT will you give ? you seem to ask, and I 
What can I give you ? answer, and am sad ; 
For what is left of lovely that I had? 
Or what of sweet will not the days deny 
To let me gain and give you by-and-bye ? 
O Love ! O Love ! what was it that forbade 
To ask of me while yet I could be glad 
To hear you ask it, and to make reply? 
For Spring was warm, and Summer all aglow, 
Autumn not cold, and not too quick to tire; 
But of the Winter if you will inquire. 
What can it do for you but sigh and show, 
Still rustling faintly over so much snow. 
The ungathered flowers of my too long desire ? 






GREENHOUSE FLOWERS. 

5 'nr^IS too late to find her flowers 

Such as I should rather give- 
Such as sad and sunlit hours 
Equally have taught to live. 

How can these, that never guessed 
How the evil helps the good — 

How can these to her suggest 

Aught of what I wish they could ? 

How can these that never felt 

Doubt and fear and hope deferred, 

Ere the snows began to melt, 
Ere the frozen earth was stirred; 



78 



GREENHOUSE FLOWERS. 



How can these that never thrilled 
In the midst of their distress, 

With the hope of hope fulfilled — 
How can these my thought express ? 



Yet, because perhaps they may 
Please her once or twice to see. 

Let them go and have their day, 
Happier than they ought to be ! 



TILL SPRING. 

T N frozen earth, 

Beneath the snow, 
A wondrous birth 
Is lurking now; 

I lay my ear 

Against the ground, 
I cannot hear 

The slightest sound. 

No sound is heard; 

The hard and bare 
Earth is not stirred, 

Yet they are there ; 



So 



TILL SPRING. 

Not very far — 
Far under these 

Cold snows they are, 
My crocuses ! 

Are there beneath 
The ice and snow, 

And Hve and breathe. 
And feel and grow, 

With a sublime 
Belief in Fate — 

They know their time. 
And can await. 



Upgrowing still, 

Though still unheard 
Or felt until 

The earth is stirred, 



TILL SPRING. 8 1 

And opes, and lo ! 

How slight a thing 
Can shame the snow 

And prove the Spring ! 

I lay my ear 

Against the ground, 
I cannot hear 

The slightest sound; 

And yet, not far — 

Far under these 
Cold snows, there are 

Warm crocuses. 

Ah! litde call 

Were there for doubt, 
If flowers were all 
I cared about ! 



82 TILL SPRING. 

If every thing 
I think of were 

Not swift to bring 
Me thoughts of her ; 

If while I say, 

Would March were o'er! 
I did not pray 

For something more; 

If while I watch 
The frozen ground, 

And strive to catch 
Some little sound 

Of life astir 

Beneath the frost, 

'Twere not of her 
I think the most; 



TILL SPRING. 83 

If while I say, 

Soon must the snows 
Melt and make way, 

And let unclose 

Sweet flowers that brood 

In secret now — 
I only could 

Forget somehow, 

Somehow forego 

The old demur, — 
Will it be so 

With her, with her? 



IN NUBIBUS. 



'' I ^HIS is a di'eam I had of her 

When in the middle seas we were. 



Sunhght possessed the clouds again, 
Well emptied of unfruitful rain, 
When, leaning o'er the vessel's side, 
I watched the bubbles rise and glide 
And break and pass away beneath ; 
And heard the creamy waters seethe, 
As when an undecided breeze 
Plays in the branches of the trees 
Just ere the leaves begin to fall ; 
And as I listened, slowly all 
The elm-tree branches on the Green 
Rose up before me ; and between 
The stately trees on either side 
I saw the pathway, smooth and wide. 
In which I once had walked with her; 



IN NUB IB us. 85 

And in it men and women were, 
Who came and went no otherwise 
Than vague cloud-shadows to my eyes, 
And whispering bubbles to my ear, 
Who neither cared to see nor hear, 
And straight forgot them every one. 

But when the last of them was gone, 
And now from end to end the walk 
Was empty of them and their talk, 
A listening, longing silence fell 
Upon the elm-trees like a spell 
Of expectation and desire. 
And quick I saw the impulsive fire 
Of sunset overflush the white 
And waiting clouds with rosy light; 
And then a breeze ran all along 
The pathway, as if from a song- 
Imparting freshness as it ran. 

Till all the autumn leaves began 
8 



86 IN NUB IB US. 

Mid-sammer murmurs in the air, 
And suddenly I saw her there — 
And felt my heart leap up, and then 
As suddenly shrink back again 
To see that she was not alone ; 
But with her walking there was one 
Whose face turned sidewise, as it were 
The better so to hark to her. 
Showed not enough to let me know 
What man it was I envied so: 
And yet I could not go away. 
But fascinated still to stay, 
And wait till they should pass me by, 
I stood and watched them cloudily. 
And saw them coming near and near, 
And nearer yet, till I could hear 
Her voice and recognize his face ; 
And, save that a transmitted grace 
Made it not easy to be known, 
So went the dream — it was my own. 



A PAUSE. 

'nr^O have the imploring hands of her 

Clasped on his shoulder, and his cheek 
Brushed over slowly by the stir 

Of thrilling hair, and not to speak ; 

To see within the unlifted eyes 

More than the fallen fringes prove 

Enough to hide, to see the rise 

Of tear-drops in them, and not move ; 

Would this be strange? And yet at last, 
What weary man may not do this. 

Seeing when the long iDursuit is past. 
To only cease how sweet it is? 



88 



A PAUSE. 



To only cease and be as one 

Who, when the fever leaves him, lies 

Careless of what is come or gone. 
Which yet he cannot realize ; 

For all his little thought is spent 
In wondering what it was that gave 

To be so quiet and content, 

While yet he is not in the grave. 



TOO LATE. 

"T~\ REAMING again, I dreamed she kissed 

me dead 
Who would not kiss me living; not less cold 
Grew the mute lips ; nor could the wilful gold, 
Brushing against them from the bended head, 
Warm the wan cheeks to any show of red ; 
Nor could the touch of falling tears withhold 
The heavy eyes from slumber, uncontrolled 
By longing any longer; but, instead. 
The sleepless soul she could not see to save 
Stood close to her with eager envious eyes. 
To see death rob him of the tardy prize, 
And waste the precious kisses that she gave. 
Only at last to prove at such a cost 
How sweet is life to him whose life is lost ! 



AUTUMN SONG. 

TT /"HAT have rustling leaves to say, 

Fit to make us sad or glad? 
Ere the wind blew us away, 
Much delight in life we had. 

Now we both of us are sad. 
Both of us would death defer — 

You, because you are not glad, 
We, because we always were. 

This is what the brown leaves say, 
With a sadness less than mine : 

Dear, if I should die to-day. 
Give me something to resign. 



UNDERSONG. 

TT 7HILE I linger in her room, 

Singing idly at her feet, 
Si douce est la Marguerite^ 
Are the clover blossoms sweet? 
Are the apple-trees in bloom, 
While I linger in her room ? 

Is there murmming of bees 
While I murmur at her feet, 
Si douce est la Marguerite? 
Is there singing swift and sweet 
By the brook-side, in the trees? 
Is there murmuring of bees ? 



92 UNDERSONG. 

In the springtime of the year, 
Sitting singing at her feet, 
Si douce est la Marguerite^ 
Is there then no other sweet 
Thing to see or have or hear 
In the springtime of the year? 



A PRODIGAL. 

'^ I ^HESE are the fields by which we went 
Few flowers, if any, then there were ; 
The grasshoppers had ahiiost spent 

Their singing when I walked with her ; 

The gold and crimson glow that was 
Among the woods was soon to die ; 

Dead leaves were on the failing grass, 
And no birds then to sing or fly: 

*^And let there be no flowers," I said, 
" And let the last leaf fade and fall ! 

When all their grace and charm are fled, 
What matter, since she has them all ? 



94 A PRODIGAL. 

"What matter, since no song-bird gives 
Such pleasure as to hear her speak, 

Since in no flower the colour lives 
So pure and sure as in her cheek? 

" Since not the calmest lake receives 
From bird or flower a lovelier fleck 

Of shadow than her ear-ring leaves 
"Upon the whiteness of her neck? 

" Since all the stir of rustling trees, 
Or waving grass, to me is less 

Than to be near her when the breeze 
Plays with her hair and with her dress? 

" Since all that I have seen or sought 
Or hoped or dreamed I find at last 

In her harmoniously enwrought. 

And by a special charm surpassed ? " 



A PRODIGAL. 95 

The last leaf took not long to fall^ 

The last flower faded long ago, 
The grass cannot be seen at all, 

Quite overfallen with frozen snow ; 

Only the breeze that blew her dress 
Seems still the same as on that day ; 

As then, so it is now no less 
The voice of all I cannot say : 

As then its murmur did not fail 

All my unthrifty hope to share> 
So now with its most lonely wail 

How well it echoes my despair ! 



MAGGIOR DOLORE. 

T7ORGIVE you? Yes, why not? 
Forget you ? Would I could, 
With all the rest that should 
But will not be forgot ! 

The loggings that outlive 

The hopes that you have slain ; 
All that I could not gain, 

And all you would not give. 



But you have given me quite 

Too much, whose hands withhold 
None of the gloom and cold — 

But all the sleep of night ; 



MAGGIOR DOLORE. 97 

Of night that sees aghast 

How few things to regret, 

How many to forget 
The barren days amassed : 

For what is worse than this — 
Than to have never had 
The joy that makes men sad 

To know how brief it is ? 

Than to have never known 

The one deUght well worth 

A man's grief in the earth 
When it is overgrown ? 

Than to be forced to choose 

The grief without the cause — 

Than to lament not loss, 

But want of what to lose ? 
9 



98 MAG G I OR DO LORE, 

Than to be one who is 

Forbidden of Love to dwell 
In either Heaven or Hell — 

What can be worse than this ? 

Ah ! it were not too hard, 
If you had let me live, 
To bless you, not forgive, 

Whate'er were afterward ; 

To say, and say it glad, — 
Because you loved before, 
Do this to me, and more ! 

To lose is to have had. 



GONE. 

T T THY have they lighted 

The empty room? 
Since she has left it, 

Black night and gloom 
Should have it wholly — 

Its walls, its floor, 
Its lifeless window, 

Its useless door. 

I stand without it 

And see, alas ! 
Too much, too little 

Of all that was ; 
Her books, her pictures, 

Her empty chair — 
O, hide them from me ! 
She is not there. 



lOO GONE. 

Draw close the curtains, 

Put out the light; 
Let darkness enter 

And have from sight 
What once was precious 

And now is vain — 
Once full of pleasure 

And now of pain ! 

Draw close and cover 

The cheat, the change, 
The sweet grown bitter, 

The dear things strange ; 
With such a darkness 

As is in me. 
Conceal and cover 

The mockery ! 



THE MORAL. 

'nr^HE play is ended ? Be it so ! 

What use to criticise ? 
And yet, perhaps 'twere well to know 
What moral underlies. 

For, as I read it, it is such 
As both may ponder o'er ; 

Had I not loved you quite so much, 
You might have loved me more. 

Q* 



THE END. 



^ I ^HE sweetest songs are those 
That few men ever hear 
And no men ever sing ; 



The clearest skies are those 

That furthest off appear 
To birds of strongest wing ; 

The dearest loves are those 

That no man can come near 
With his best following. 



PART SECOND. 



WITH NATURE. 



VITA VITALIS. 
I. 

TT 7HEN first the Spring grasses 

Take motion, and glisten 
In sun-litten masses, 
Wherethrough the brook passes 

And shinmiers and sings ; 
When first the birds woo me 

To linger and listen, 
And watch them upspringing 

On wonderfiil wings ; 
When breezes are bringing 
Sweet scents to renew me, 
Sweet sounds thrilling through me, 

From apple blooms over 

The blossoming clover, 
Where bees murmur, clinging 



io6 VITA VITALIS, 

With passionate pleasure, 
And butterflies wander 

In silence, at leisure, 
Like spirits that ponder 

Inscrutable things; — 

Then always and ever. 
Despite my endeavour 

To 'scape its control, 
Some inflowing sadness 
Discolours the gladness 

That freshens my soul; 
Some answerless question. 
Some subtile suggestion, 

Some shyly returning 
Unsought recollection; 
Some eager projection 

Of vague undiscerning. 

But passionate yearning ; 
A hoping, regretting, 



VITA VITALIS. 107 



Remembering, forgetting ; 
A groping, a reaching. 
Demanding, beseeching; 
A strangeness, a dearness, 
A distance, a nearness ; 
Perplexes, excites me, 
Repels me, invites me 
And fills me with fear : 

With fear of foregoing 
My life without knowing 
The life that without me. 
Above me, about me, 
Is ceaselessly flowing 

So near me, so near ! — 
So near, and yet ever 
Beyond. my endeavour 
To woo it and win it, 
To have it and be it, 
To lose myself in it. 



lo8 VITA VI TALIS. 

I only can see it, 
And feel it and hear it, 
And love it and fear it. 

So willing to bless me, 

So stem to repress me. 
What is it — what is it 
Which makes me to miss it. 
And only to miss it? 

What charm to be spoken? 

What spell to be broken, 
Before I regain it 
Once more, or attain it 
At last, and inherit 

And hold as securely 
As any of these. 
The life that my spirit 

Remembers obscurely. 
Obscurely foresees? 



VITA VITALIS. 109 



11. 

Winged spirits, that wander 
In silence and ponder 

Inscrutable things, 
Ah ! why do ye shun me ? 
Float over, light on me, 
O touch me and thrill me. 
With watchfulness fill me ! 
Nay ! fan me and still me. 

Ye wonderful wings. 
To slumber, if only, 
Me sleeping, my lonely 
Shy spirit, who knew you 
Once haply, can woo you 
To take her unto you 
Once more where ye wander 
In silence and ponder 
Inscrutable things! 



A DAY 



I. 



TT T'HERE but few feet ever stray. 

Far beyond the path's advances, 
All alone an idler lay 
Half a breezy summer day 

Underneath a chestnut's branches ; 



2. 

Not a stranger to the place, 

For the daisies nodded to him, 
And the grass in lines of grace 
Bending over, touched his face 

With light kisses thrilling through him. 



A DAY. Ill 

3- 

Close beside his harmless hand 

Swinging bees would suck the clover; 
And a moment to be scanned 
Sunlit butterflies expand 

Easy wings to bear them over. 

4. 

All about him, full of glee, 

Careless cricket-songs were ringing, 
And the wild birds in the tree 
Settled down, where he could see 
While he heard them gayly singing. 

5- 

Overhead he saw the trees 

Nod and beckon to each other, 

And, too glad to be at ease. 

Saw the green leaves in the breeze 

Tingle touching one another \ 
10 



112 A DAY. 

6. 

Saw the little lonely rill 

In a line of greener growing, 
Slipping downward from the hill, 
Curving here and there at will, 

Through the tangled grasses going; 

.7. 

Saw the play about his feet 

Of the flickering light and shadow; 
Saw the sunlight go to meet 
Glancing corn and waving wheat ; 
Saw the mowers in the meadow ; 

.8. 

Saw the waves leap up and play 

On the palpitating river. 
Flowing out to find the bay, 
And the white ships far away 

Sailing on and on forever; 



A DAY. 113 

9- 

Saw the hills upon whose side 
Slow cloud-shadows love to dally ; 

Saw the high hills, with the pride 

Of dark forests belted wide, 
Over many a misty valley; 

10. 
Saw far-off the thin and steep 

Cloudy mountain-lands of wonder. 
Where unseen the torrents leap 
Over rifted rocks that keep 

Echoing memories of the thunder ; 

II. 

Saw the self-supporting sky 

Ever more and more receding ; 

Loth to linger, loth to fly. 

Saw the clouds go floating by. 

Stranger shapes to strange succeeding ; 
10* 



114 ^ ^^y- 

12. 

Saw and mused and went away, 

Whether light or heavy hearted, 
It were hard for him to say, 
For a something came that day 
And a something had departed; 

13- 

And his soul was overfraught 

With a passion e'er returning; 
With the pain that comes unsought 
Of unutterable thought, 

And the restlessness of yearning. 



THE RIVER. 

T~\AY after day 

I see the sunlit river 
Float slowly on its way 

Thro' pleasant fields that never 
Can charm it to delay, 
Day after day. 

Day after day 

It thrills as on its bosom 
The shifting shadows play 

Of leaf, and bud, and blossom, 
But still keeps on its way 
Day after day. 



Ii6 THE RIVER, 

Day after day- 
It answers with its singing 

Blithe birds and crickets gay, 
And smiles on breezes bringing 

Sweet scents from far away, 

Day after day. 

Day after day 

"Sweet is it to have fomid you," 
It sings ; " but far away. 

And farther yet beyond you, 
I flow to find the bay 
Day after day." 

Day after day, 

"Why should my going grieve you?" 
It sings; "O, you who may, 

Come with me or I leave you," 
Still flowing to the bay 
Day after day. 



'^N THE SPRING-TIME." 

OEE what I saw to-day, 
Just as I. turned away 
To leave the budding wood, 
And paused and understood 
The meaning of Spring weather; 
Two lovers close together. 
That, — where at last the laughing brook 
Glides to the lake,— with dreamy look 
And lips half-parted in a smile — 
Stood charmed to watch a little isle. 
Past which the waves went rippling on 
With softer music to the swan 
That sat there in enchanted rest, 
Unmoving on her nest. 



IN EARLY APRIL. 

'nr^HE cold is over, the snows are gone, 

The grass begins to be green once more. 
And shyly opening one by one, 

The crocuses blossom beside the door ; 

Love, if you love me, love me more ! 



The tops of the maples are faintly red. 
The amber willows are seen afar ; 

And laughing, chirruping overhead, 

The birds that glisten, how glad they are I 
Dearest, the nearest is still too far ! 



IN MAY. 

"XT OW that the green hill-side has quite 

Forgot that it was ever white, 
With quivering gi-asses clothed upon ; 
And dandelions invite the sun; 
And columbines have found a way 
To overcome the hard and gray- 
Old rocks that also feel the Spring; 
And birds make love and swing and sing 
On boughs which were so bare of late ; 
And bees become importunate; 
And butterflies are quite at ease 
Upon the well-contented breeze, 
Which only is enough to make 
A shadowy laughter on the lake; 



I20 IN MAY, 

And all the clouds, tiiat here and there 
Are floating, melting in the air, 
Are such as beautify the blue ; — 
Now what is worthier. May, than you 
Of all my praise, of all my love. 
Except whom you remind me of? 



SPRING SONG. 

I. 

1\ /[" ORE soft and white and light, 
More fragrant than the snow, 
The cherry flowers are falUng 
And floating to and fro 
About the happy trees; 
And happy birds are caUing 
Each other, and the breeze 
Is Hstening, loth to go. 

2. 

And yet these are the trees 
That seemed so cold and stern 
To winter's warmest weather ; 
Wait till it is my turn — 



122 SPRING SONG, 

Wait till the good days bring 
My love and me together, 
Breezes, and I will sing 
Songs you would love to learn I 

3- 

Till then I too, like you. 

In a bewildered quest, 

Too vainly praying ever 

Wholly to be possest, 

Am neither free nor thrall; 

In all things something, never 

In one thing finding all; 

Unanswered and unblest. 



MAY SONG. 

'' I ^HERE is grass now where the snow was 

Everywhere ; 
There are blossoms now for snow-flakes 

In the air; 
And the birds have hiding-places 

In the trees, 
Where the green leaves turn and tremble 

To the breeze ; 
And where the ice was, now the swan 
Moves the lake she floats upon. 

O my Eove ! and there is singing 

Now to hear; 
And a motion and a murmur 

Far and near. 



124 MAY SONG, 

In the grasses, in the waters, 

In the flowers, 
Fill with mystery of music 

All the hours, 
Made too delightful now for one 
To dare to live his life alone. 

Come then, come, my Love, and listen, 

Come and see ! 
Come and share the beauty with me ; 

Come and be 
Its interpreter to make it 

Understood, 

Its enhancer. Love, to make it 

Doubly good ; 
Till I perhaps grow lovely too, 

Thanks to the spring-time and to you ! 



MOONLIGHT IN MAY. 

'^ I ^HANKS ! for I understand you, happy trees ! 

And smile with you at all that made me 

sad, 

Drawn unawares beyond all griefs I had 

Into the truthfulness of clear moonlight. 

Before whose frankness I can banish quite 

The old forlorn endeavour to be glad. 

And carelessly stand' listening as I please 

To the low rustle on the sparkling shore 

Of conscious waves, that, ripplingly at ease, 

Outrun the light and lead it on before ; 

Or to the murmur of the moonlit trees. 

Whom time of waiting and reserve is o'er, 

Whom Spring has taught to captivate the breeze. 

And charm the nights made musical once more. 
II* 



I 



IN THE MEADOW. 

DLE, and all in love with idleness; 

Caught in the net-work that my oak-tree 
weaves 
Of light and shadow with his thrilling leaves, 
And charmed to hear his murmured songs no 

less, 
On the shorn grass I lie, and let the excess 
Of summer life seem only summer play ; 
Even to the farmers working far away. 
Where one man lifts and strenuously heaves 
A bristly haycock up to him who stands 
Unsteadily upon the swaying load. 
Which, while the shuffling oxen slowly pass, 
Touched into wakefulness by voice and goad. 
He shapes and smooths, and turning in his 

hands. 
The long fork glistens like a rod of glass. 



BY THE LAKE. 

C^EE how the restless melancholy lake 
Gives all itself, too vainly evermore, 

Up to the blankness of the barren shore 
Which cannot answer it again, nor take 
Warmth to its loveless life from lips that ache 

With kissing and beseeching o'er and o'er. 

O bitterness of life, not known before ! 
Who shall deliver it from loves that make 

No answer to its yearning, strangely strong 
To shut it in and waste its noblest powers? 

Making a moan of what was meant for song, 
And for its hope of growing grass and flowers, 

Condemning it to see its best endeavour 

End in slow foam on fruitless sands forever. 



BY THE BAY. 

/'~\^ the smooth shore I stand alone and see 
A wonder in the distance : there the bay, 
Drawn on to meet and mingle far away 
With the broad sky's unstained serenity, 
Pauses at last from panting restlessly ; 
Smooths his short waves, and scorning to delay, 
Falls from the rounded world with all his weight 
In silence through the silences below; 
Where nothing balks the aimless overflow, 
Till all the solid waters separate, 
Split into streams, that bursting as they go 
Fly off in rain, that ends in scattered spray 
And mist that rises for the winds to blow 
Hither and thither in unending play. 



THE MIST. 

T SAW along the lifeless sea 

A mist come creeping stealthily, 
Without a noise and slow, 
A crouching mist come crawling low 
Along the lifeless sea. 

None marked that creeping, crawling mist 

That crawled along the sea, 

That crept and crawled so stealthily 

And was so weak and white ; 

The moon was shining clear, I wist, 

Above it in the night. 



130 THE MIST. 

I saw it creeping, crawling low, 
Slow crawling from the sea, 
I saw it creep and crawl and grow 
Till all the stifled earth below 
Was shrouded silently : 

I saw it creep and crawl and grow, 
A forceless, formless thing, 
Determined, tireless, ceaseless, slow, 
Silent and silencing; 
I saw it creep and crawl and rise 
And crawl into the skies ; 

The stars began to faint and fail, 

That were so pure and clear; 

The moon took on a loathsome look 

Of likeness to her fear — 

That closer crawled and clung to her 

And clung more near and near. 



THE MIST, 131 

The smothered moon went out and left 

Not even the mist to see, 

Mere blankness, and a sickening sense 

Of something worse to be ; 

And certainly in midst of it 

An awful thing I wist, 

It was to know that all the world 

Was nothing but a mist, 

But a creeping, crawling mist. 



RARA AVIS. 

TANDING in shade, beside a path that lay 

Full in the sunlight of the afternoon, 
A gush of song from some bird far away 

1 heard arise and sink again as soon ; 

And still I listened, but no more I heard, 
And all I saw was on the sunny ground 
The flying shadow of an unseen bird, 
No sooner come, than gone without a sound. 

And so a song that I have never heard 
Surpasses all that I shall ever hear. 
And by the shadow of a vanished bird 
The rest are darkened and not very dear. 



THE KATYDID. 

T T 7H0 knows of what the katydid 

Sings every night where he is hid 
In secret grasses or in trees 
That have so many mysteries? 
But under faint far stars, that peer 
Through fainter clouds, I stand and hear 
Him singing, and know not indeed 
If any other song I need ; 
If any other song there be 
So full of thrilling things to me ; 
Deluding me with old delights 
That wake and make less happy nights 
Not wholly barren for their sakes ; 
And old and new desires it wakes 

12 



134 



THE KATYDID. 



For sweeter things than are; and all 

That ever was or is or shall 

Be made for longing or regret 

It mingles and makes lovelier yet; 

Till now if over or below 

He sing or cease I hardly know ! 



A VINE. 

ROOTED and sure to grow 

It lets its freshness flow 

O'er barren rocks, and graces 
Their blankness till they show, 
With green and crimson glow. 
As if themselves did make 
The beauty that they take. 

This is the true man's way; 

To let no kind of chances 
Warp him or turn astray ; 

The blankest circumstances 
Shall give his spirit play 
If he will — as he may — 

Because the rest are slow. 

Strive all the more to grow. 



ON THE BEACH. 

'T^HANKS to the few fair clouds that show 

So white against the blue, 
At last even I begin to know 
Wliat I was born to do ; 

What else but here alone to lie 

And bask me in the sun? 
Well pleased to see the sails go by 

In silence one by one; 

Or lovingly, along the low 

Smooth shore no plough depraves, 

To watch the long low lazy flow 
Of the luxurious waves. 



A GLIMPSE OF LIFE. 

/'"XH, not in vain some happier influence led 
My feet to wander where few footsteps go ! 
After so long a pacing to and fro 
In barren ways, how good it is instead, 
Here where the blue is ample overhead, 
And where the green is plentiful below, 
To be alone and let the unquestioned flow 
Of real life control me quieted ! 
Quieted, yes ! and brought near to behold 
The only life that makes me loth to die ; 
Whether the grass or whether the light breeze 
Gladden me more, or whether it be these 
Slim silver birches, lifting to the sky 
Such quivering fountains of sunshiny gold. 

12* 



MY STAR. 



"^ I ^HAT is my star, that single one, 
Who, rising first and all alone 
Ere yet the day is fairly gone. 



Pale with old love and new delight, 
Stands thrilling on the lonely height, 
Prophet and herald of the night ; 

Whom many more shall greet, but none 
So grandly as this lonely one. 



MAN AND NATURE. 

y^ STEADFAST trees, that know 

Rain, hail and sleet and snow, 
And all the winds that blow ; 

But when spring comes, can then 

So freshly bud again 
Forgetful of the wrong ! 

Waters that deep below 

The stubborn ice can go 

With quiet underflow ; 
Contented to be dumb 
Till spring herself shall come 

To Hsten to your song ! 



I40 MAN AND NATURE. 

Stars that the clouds pass o'er 
And stain not, but make more 
Alluring than before ; — 
How good it is for us 
That your lives are not thus 
Prevented, but made strong ! 



CALM AND COLD. 

T3REAK into spray, and fly and fill the air 
With ghastly mist that freezes ere it falls, 
O stniggling waves ! whom not the wind appals, 
Nor all the wrestling tempests overbear. 
But secret fear, lest, pausing weary there, 
Instead of peace, renewing whom it calls. 
The subtle cold, that levels and enthralls, 
Should creep and find and bind you unaware : 
And what were worse than, smoothly calm and 

cold, 
Wrapt in false peace, to fancy strife is o'er. 
Forget the woes that all the winds deplore, 
Forget the cares that all the clouds enfold. 
Watch not nor wait for changes as of old, 
And feel the movement of the world no more ! 



WINTER SUNRISE. 

TT THEN I consider, as I am forced to do, 

The many causes of my discontent, 
And count my failures, and remember too 
How many hopes the failures represent; 
The hope of seeing what I have not seen. 
The hope of winning what I have not won, 
The hope of being what I have not been. 
The hope of doing what I have not done ; 
When I remember and consider these — 
Against my Past my Present seems to lie 
As bare and black as yonder barren trees 
Against the brightness of the morning sky. 
Whose golden expectation puts to shame 
The lurking hopes to which they still lay claim. 



WINTER SUNSET. 

T SAW a cloud at set of sun 

Exceeding white and fair, 
High over every other one, 
And poised in purer air; 

Like one that follows, forward bent, 
With arms outspread before. 

Into the splendid west he went 
Just as the day was o'er; 

I saw him turn to rosy red, 

I saw him turn to fire, 
I saw him burn away instead 

Of ceasing to desire. 



BY THE FIRESIDE. 

(Decetnler 26.) 

OAFELY at home, what is it that I hear 

In the wind's moaning and the driven snow 
That will not let me rest ? Strange sounds of woe 
From icy sailors battling with their fear; 
The dreadful rush of shuddering ships that steer 
For safety from the harbours that they know ; 
The thunder of blown icebergs as they go 
Together in the darkness ; and more near, 
And worse than all the tumult of the seas, 
A long low moan and sound of scanty tears 
From hungry men and women as they freeze. 
O Christ ! the world is sad these many years 
For many causes; would that one might cease 
From making vain all promises of peace ! 



THE MEN OF CRETE. 

{Jajiuary, 1867.) 

T T 7 OULD that death were as far removed 

as fear 
From all heroic hearts ! Shall death be known 
The only friend of heroes left alone 
To fight for what men say that they revere, 
Unhelped, unheard? and dying shall they hear 
Only a longer wail, a deeper moan 
From all they love, more utterly o'erthrown 
Because they loved, and proved their love sin- 
cere? 
O men ! how long shall this great wrong en- 
dure? 
The slave be ruler, and the hero slave, 
Truth's service suffering, and earth too poor 
To give her noblemen more than a grave ? 
But take it, Cretans ! for the tree is sure 

Whose branches murmur o'er the martyred brave. 
13 



THE LION OF LUCERNE. 

I. 

OILENT it is, but over it the trees 

And under it the waters, and around 
The bees and birds and grasses make a sound 
Of life whose movement is all grace and ease, 
Devoid of fears, devoid of ecstasies, 
But full of joy as careless as profound; 
Silent it is, but none the less at last 
Its mute insistence overcomes the ear 
And steals the pleasure that it had to hear 
Earth's peaceful noises, which seem changing 

fast 
Into mere mockery, as the wave-like Past, 
Recurring sullenly, brings near and near 
The unjoyful murmur of man's ceaseless strife, 
Let break in vain against the shore of life. 



THE LION OF LUCERNE. 

II. 

"XT'ET there is life, and there is joy and peace ; 
Life before death, and peace this side the 
grave, 
And joy in Earth, for this is what we crave, 
Not to postpone, nor to forego and cease. 
But in fulfihnent to obtain release 
From strife which vexes, but at last shall save : 
Therefore to you, blithe singing birds and bees, 
To you, soft trickling waters, and to you, 
Slow melting cloud- wreaths in the unruffled blue. 
Above the movement of the mingled trees. 
To you once more my soul returns and sees. 
And hears, not mockery, but a calm and true 
Correction and approval of the strife. 
Which is not life, but shall attain to life. 



MY PLACE. 

'' I ^HERE are more reasons than I care to 

know 
Why I should love this place of mine so well, 
And not the least of them perhaps is this : 
That never yet have I seen any one 
Of those, — ^but few, — who even pass it by. 
Who ever thought of loving it at all. 
Or ever fancied, much less knew how near, 
For me at least, it is to Paradise. 

A place reserved, a place apart, afar 
From any human love but only mine; 
Yet in itself most lovely (as indeed 
My love for it is quite enough to prove), 
Though not another love it but myself. 
Who therefore love it only all the more. 



MV PLACE. T49 

For who can say he knows what Nature is, 

Till he have found him out some sacred spot 

Where none delights to linger but himself? 

But if he once has found him such a place, 

O ! there for him, wherever his foot fall. 

As from the hoof of Pegasus, up springs 

A living Hippocrene, whereof his soul 

May drink and be inspired for evermore. 

But let him, as with dragons round about. 

Shut in and keep his garden of delight. 

Lest, if he find another foot-print there. 

His fountain change into a lifeless pool, 

Or shyly sink into the earth again. 

Once in a great while one may take his friend 

(For, if he be indeed a friend, the law 

Of oneness is not too much disobeyed) 

To see the place and yet preserve his love ; — 

But for the time he loses, I affirm. 

The best of what its influence affords 

To him alone who visits it alone ; — 
13* 



T50 MY PLACE. 

Just as one to a woman whom he loves 
In an unselfish moment brings a friend, 
But goes perforce to visit her alone 
Whenever he would be supremely blest. 

Hear something, therefore, now about my place. 

But first, I will not tell you where it is, 

Lest you should choose to go there for yourself, 

And find it not so beautiful to you 

As I say it is beautiful to me ; 

And after think as illof me, perhaps, 

As some unhappy moralists of those 

Old paniters who were not ashamed to make 

Madonnas of their mistresses. Alas ! 

From the main road I turn abrupt, and walk. 
Shadowed by lazy willows (of our trees 
The first to show, the last to shed their leaves — 
Most hopeful and most faithful of them all), 
A little Vvay along a lonely lane 



AIV PLACE. 151 

Which leads me to the entrance of my place — 
So I have named it — which, though often seen. 
Yet somehow always takes me by surprise. 

It seems to be a road — though never yet 
Have I seen horse or wagon enter it — 
Which passes downward crookedly between 
Old rocks which overshadow it all day : 
Old rocks whose tops are overgrown with grass, 
Where violets delay dewdrops from the sun. 
And dandelions show like midsummer stars. 
Or languid moons at mid-day, ere the breeze 
Has played the sower with them ; daisies, too, 
Contemplative till Fall; and in the Fall 
Frank purple asters, and glad golden rod : 
Slim birch trees shadow them not heavily, 
And overlean the pass from either side. 
With silver trunks and shining restless leaves, 
And twigs so slight that when the leaves are 
gone 



152 , MV PLACE. 

I scarce regret their absence in the Fall, 
So delicately beautiful appear 
The loosely interwoven, sharp, thin lines, 
With pendulous seed-tassels held aloft 
In shifting tracery on the pale blue sky. 

But O ! to stand directly in the midst. 
Below the scarred old rocks on either hand, 
Low down in shadow, and from off the ground 
To let the eye rise from the weedy grass 
And slowly make acquaintance with the moss 
And many-coloured lichens of the rock ; 
And with the hanging grass, which grows and 

sways, 
Head downward, whispering softly to the breeze; 
With vines that climb and vines that overfall 
Luring the eye to follow the long curves, 
Till high above I see the twisted roots. 
And higher yet, like lines of silver light. 
The overreaching stems that half across, 



MY PLACE. 153 

From either side the pathway, hold aslant 

The longing separated birches there, 

Whose quivering leaves attempt to blend in vain; 

And higher yet, between them and beyond. 

As if seen for the first time in my life, 

Lo the blue sky ! far off, but not too far ! 

Beyond the rocks are trees that overhang 
Few wild flowers in the Spring, but in the Fall 
Uncounted wealth of many-coloured leaves — 
Old chestnut trees, and hickories and oaks, 
Wound round with woodbine, overgrown with 

moss, 
Under whose ample branches dogwoods grow. 
In Winter I have seen them blotted out 
By blurring snow-storms from the encroaching 

sky, 
And on smooth lying snow have traced, how 

oft, 
The still blue shadows of their thinnest twigs; 



154 J^y PLACE. 

And in the Spring have seen them putting 

forth, 
And thrilled to see that first faint tender green 
Above the rugged bark, as if I saw 
Tears of mere tenderness upon the face 
Of some stern fighter in a life-long war; 
And in the Summer I have sat and mused 
For hours beneath their dream-compelling leaves. 

But in the Autumn love them most of all ; 
And that especially for four or five 
Supreme old oaks and hickories, even now. 
This third day of November, which retain 
A glory that no others ever had. 
The frequent maples, that last month fulfilled 
The air with cheerfulness, are faded now 
To brooding brown, or oftener yet become 
Mere leaden outlines, stiff" and cold; but here 
Are hickories still with living golden leaves 
Unblenching from the breezes, while around 



MV PLACE. 155 

The chestnut leaves are fluttering down in 

showers, 
And even in places crackling under foot. 

But the one tree which consecrates the place 
With glorious beauty is a lonely oak 
Which stands full in the sunlight, with a mass 
Of quivering, clear, almost transparent leaves, 
Which look like burning rubies in the air, 
So red they are, so full of life and light. 
No other autumn tree can match with this — 
No scarlet maple among its golden mates. 
No sumach, no, nor woodbine where it falls 
O'er a gray rock in sunlight, shows a red 
So clear, so pure, so ravishing as this — 
like light itself, a mystery, a charm : 
One almost fears to see it pass away 
With every movement of the hovering breeze; 
But it remains, it lives and glows and grows. 
And holds me like a sunset, till at last 



T56 MV PLACE. 

[ break away reluctantly, and turn 
And turn again to see it yet once more, 
Mingling its rubies with the glancing gold 
Of sunlit leaves behind it, while the sky. 
In sapphire flecks seen thro' the magic web, 
Seems quivering with its motion like the sea. 

But ere one passes from between the rocks, 
He sees a gleam of brightness underneath. 
Which tells him why the pathway all at once 
Descends so swiftly, making haste to meet 
The beckoning waters that it sees below. 
And so its eagerness begets in me 
An equal longing, and I hurry down. 
And for a moment am amazed and blind 
Before the rippling river as it flows 
And flashes in the sunlight at my feet. 

But, far off in the distance to the left. 
Soon I begin to see a narrow shore 



MV PLACE. 157 

Which widens ever, till straight across I see 
Broad sloping fields, and back of them the woods 
That step by step rise up to mark the sky 
With dark uneven fringes on the blue; 
Then no more meadows for the waves to wash, 
But a bare wall to beat against in vain 
Of unassisted rock, which far away 
Curves suddenly to meet, or seem to meet 
The bending shore, and shut the river in, 
So that all sails that pass me outward bound 
Seem all at once to strangely disappear 
As if the mountain took them, as of old 
The Venusberg took Venus and her knight; 
While those that come seem rising from the 

depths, 
Like Flying-Dutchmen from another world. — 
And yonder by the chestnut is My Place 

It has two parts ; the first, a grassy bank 

Just on the border of a little wood 
14 



158 MY PLACE. 

Of chestnut-trees, above a tiny pool 
Of shallow water, from whose edge the grass 
Slopes once again to meet the actual shore 
(Its second part), than which I think there is 
No better place to see and hear the waves. 
And watch the noiseless changes of the clouds. 

When I first found it 'twas a lovely day — 
A lovely latter May-day, warm and bright — 
A day for lying on the grass alone, 
To watch and wonder at the tender leaves, 
And breathe the fragrance of the kindi"ed ground ; 
Over and back of me the breathing trees, 
And over these, seen partly thro' the boughs. 
The waveless sky, with little melting clouds ; 
Below, the shallow waters reproduced 
The rocks and shrubs and overhanging trees. 
And sky and clouds and butterflies and birds — 
Its magic stillness broken only once 
By magic music, where a thin lost rill, 



MY PLACE. 159 

From groping thro' the hiding grass, at last 
Stole forth and found and fell into its lake, 
With ripple and flash, like laughter heard and 

seen ; 
And then the river, seen without its shore, 
Bright in the sunlight, rippled by the breeze; 
Far off the incessant glances of a quick 
Insufferable multitude of suns; 
Nearer, a broad white band of blinding light, 
Which made the waters just this side of it 
Seem almost black with gloom, which when the 

sails 
Touched they were changed, and in a moment 

gone, 
Lost in the splendour of concealing hght. 

And many a morning since, upon the shore 
Have I sat still and let the river flow 
Unheeded, while I watched the silent clouds 
On the transparent river of the air, 



i6o MV PLACE. 

Like ruffled swans rejoicing in the breeze, 

Whose motion was for music ; or have tried 

To name the unimaginable forms 

Of all the cirri in the upper blue, 

Pleased like a child to mark what flecks of foam. 

What overfalling wool-white waves were there, 

What misty beams, what thread-like lines of light, 

What flying flashes of revolving fire. 

What airy tongues of unpolluted flame, 

What breathing Northern-lights, what Milky-ways, 

What fairy frost-work, what gigantic ferns. 

What cirri simply (I came back to that) — 

Till into me insensibly the charm 

Of all the loveliness of all the sky. 

Its light, its joy, its clearness and its calm. 

Stole like sweet music, ending in a cry 

Of inexpressible desire, and passed. 

And still the breeze just touched the lazy leaves, 

And at my feet the seeming sleepy waves 

Moved only as a dreamful sleeper breathes. 



MV PLACE. i6i 

But there are days of quiet, when the calm 

Seems not of dreaming, but of speechless thought. 

And under all the quietness I feel, 

I know what lurking restlessness is there. 

That with the waking comes the war again. 

And often as I sit and look across, 

And contemplate the slow unyielding rocks, 

Dead to the movement of the clouds and waves. 

Their joy or pain, their hope or their despair, — 

Oft as I sit alone and look at these. 

The whole world changes, and at once my dreams 

Born of the warm air and the whispering leaves, 

Are scattered from me by the self-same thought 

That crowds the waves to wear the rocks away ; 

Then what are dreams of things to be desired 

To that desire of things to be denied. 

Which pricks me to my feet and sets my face 

With hungry pain against the little breeze? — 

Longing to feel it change into a swift. 

Indignant wind, which shall uprouse the waves 
14* 



1 62 MY PLACE, 

To fury, and the tree-tops to a grand 
Dishevelled madness, while from woods to waves 
The roar is answered, and my soul relieved 
By lifting music from its want of wings, 
And envy of the sea-gulls, where they fly 
Wrestling the wind, insatiate of the storm. 

Such winds I find here often in the Fall 
Then not such clouds as but enhance the 

blue 
Above the rippling river whitely sail 
Nowhither smoothly, but rebellious shapes 
Of writhing darkness, like the lower waves, 
.Rise raging and fall sullenly, blown on 
And dashed against the inviolable sun; 
Grandly they rise and grandly are thrust down, 
The ragged foam-like edges wildly bright 
With an unwelcome brightness, till at last — 
As naturally as if the storm itself 
Were but the inclusion of a central calm — 



MY PLACE. 163 

There comes a change ; the uncertain wind 

decides ; 
The trees still rock and roar and grind ; the 

waves 
Still writhe and gnash and murmur unappeased ; 
The clouds still sway and struggle overhead; 
But in the west a space of purer blue 
(Heaven never is so purely blue as when 
The heavy clouds are broken after rain) 
Expects its glory from the setting sun, 
And takes it, and the changing clouds no less 
Take alien beauty, and I too am glad 
After the storm, and with light step and heart 
Can now walk homeward, having little need, 
Lighted and shone upon by such a sky. 
Of any God or Goddess, Friend or Love, 
Except for thanks, except for sympathy. 



AD AMICUM. 

"T^ORGIVE me if I seem to change and be 
Other than what you loved me for before ; 
What is not changed and changing ? Ah ! no 

more, 
No more now in fresh morning meadows we 
With songs may walk together, light and free, 
But, thrust apart, too hardly measure o'er 
A highway journey, in whose dust and roar 
All things are altered that we hear and see : 
What wonder then if I look dark and grim, 
Soiled by the dust of this too dusty way? 
What wonder if the eye grow strangely dim, 
And the voice husky that was once so gay? 
And yet I think the unforgotten hymn 
Shall yet again be sung some not too distant 

day. 



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